


A Touch of Chamomile

by tardigrape



Series: The Witcher and His Bard [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Gay Sex, Geralt Being Less So, Geralt Truly Does Have a Lovely Bottom, Jaskier Being In Love, M/M, Massage, No Spoilers, Pining, Porn with Feelings, The Scene with the Chamomile, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, monster killing, this is basically canon, top!Jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:40:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22324948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardigrape/pseuds/tardigrape
Summary: "Oh, you usually just let strangers rub chamomile onto your lovely bottom?" -Jaskier, in Of Banquets, Bastards, and BurialsJaskier’s fingers closed around the bottle he was looking for, and he turned, holding it up triumphantly. “Chamomile,” he announced. “Perfect for relaxation. I’m going to give you a massage.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Witcher and His Bard [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1591987
Comments: 20
Kudos: 678





	A Touch of Chamomile

“Stay here.” Geralt spoke over his shoulder to Jaskier.

They had walked a moderate distance away from the village of Kostyn, where Geralt had picked up a contract, and in that time the sun had sunk below the horizon. The moon had not yet risen. Geralt was now prowling around the outside of a crumbling manor, its stone walls a mere dark blot against the slightly less dark sky. A chill wind howled through the trees, making their branches snap.

“No, thank you, don’t think I will,” Jaskier responded, treading close behind Geralt.

Geralt turned and narrowed his glowing gold eyes at Jaskier. “There is a monster in there, probably a garkain. It’s not safe. Stay out here.”

“Yes,” replied Jaskier, “but you’re going in there, so very shortly there will be not only a monster in there, but also a Geralt, and there will not be a Geralt out here. And, you must admit…” Jaskier looked around at the creeping darkness. “It’s entirely possible there’s a monster out here, too.”

Geralt grunted and turned back to the manor.

“And anyway,” continued Jaskier, climbing after him over the rubble of a tumbled down wall, “if I’m out here I won’t be able to see your fight with this…”

“Garkain,” supplied Geralt.

“Yes, this garkain. And if I don’t see it, I’ll have to ask you about it. And you’ll say, ‘It was big,’ or ‘It had claws,’ and I’ll have to keep asking you until you give me something I can actually work with. Much easier for both of us if I just come with you.”

Geralt grunted again. Jaskier took that for agreement, and clambered after him, dropping into the manor with, well, perhaps slightly less grace than the witcher. A cloud of dust rose from his feet where they hit the floor. He sneezed.

“Be quiet,” hissed Geralt.

“Not like I could help sneezing,” Jaskier responded. Geralt growled, and Jaskier stopped talking.

They crept forward, Geralt with his silver sword raised. The rooms held the crumbling detritus of old nobility—a moldering coat of arms over what had once been a fireplace, a badly cracked and corroded candelabrum, a blackened canvas in a gilt frame that had probably once been a fine portrait. Jaskier held his breath so as not to breathe in any more dust.

The floor creaked beneath their steps as they wound through the empty rooms. Jaskier wondered briefly what had happened to the family whose house this once was. Had they lost their titles, or had they simply moved on somewhere?

He realized Geralt had gotten a bit ahead of him, and hurried to catch up. But he must have taken a path Geralt hadn’t trod, because suddenly the wooden floor crumbled beneath his foot and he fell, hard, onto a cold stone floor, letting out a yelp as he landed.

“Jaskier!” Geralt’s voice above him held a note of alarm.

“Sorry, Geralt!” Jaskier called back. “The floor gave way.”

Jaskier supposed he must have fallen into the cellar. It was cold, and so dark he couldn’t see his own hand in front of his face. His hip ached from the fall, but he seemed to be generally intact. “I’m all right, just—”

A slight thud nearby and a pair of glowing gold eyes told him Geralt had followed him down. “Hush,” Geralt hissed.

“Why, what—”

Geralt’s hand clapped over Jaskier’s mouth. Jaskier fought an urge to smile; now was probably not the time. But he never tired of Geralt’s touch, even in the direst of circumstances.

A piercing screech banished all thoughts of smiling from his mind. Geralt’s hand whipped away, and Jaskier heard a grunt and the swish of metal arcing through air. The screech came again, this time from somewhere to Jaskier’s left, and he scrambled to the right as the thuds and swishes chased after the noise. Jaskier cursed the moon—he wasn’t seeing any of this fight, and it sounded quite good. More thuds and grunts, another screech, and _skluuurch_. The noises stopped.

“Did you kill it?” Jaskier asked in a low voice. Geralt merely grunted. This, Jaskier had learned, meant yes. “Oh, well done. It’s just a shame I didn’t see it. You’ll have to tell me about it on the way back to the village.”

A sickening wet noise told Jaskier Geralt had removed the monster’s head. This trophy he would present to the alderman as proof he had completed his contract. For all the distaste Jaskier felt at this custom, he was rather glad of it, for it meant that he always caught some glimpse of the creatures Geralt killed, even if he only saw their heads.

But now a new noise reached Jaskier’s ears: feet making a quick pacing of the room. “Fuck,” Geralt muttered.

“Is there another one?” Jaskier said, his voice a much higher register than he’d intended.

Geralt grunted. “Vampires are generally solitary.”

“Oh. That’s good, then.” But Geralt was still pacing. “So, um, what’s the problem?”

“The stairs have rotted away.”

Ah. Yes, that was a bit of a problem. But this couldn’t be Geralt’s first time hunting a monster in the cellar of a ruined manor. “Well, can’t we climb out?”

Geralt snorted. “You climbed out of any cellars lately?”

Jaskier sighed. “All right, can’t you hoist me up and then climb out? Or, I don’t know, carry me on your shoulders or something? I mean, you’re very strong, and you’ve picked me up before.” Flattery didn’t ever work on Geralt, but Jaskier often found he couldn’t help himself.

Geralt grunted, and, sure enough, Jaskier felt himself lifted at the waist and hoisted onto Geralt’s shoulder. “Stand up and pull yourself up onto that ledge,” Geralt said.

“What ledge? It’s dark, I don’t—”

“It’s right in front of you.”

Standing up on Geralt’s shoulders wasn’t nearly as easy as he had made it out to be, but Jaskier managed it somehow, one hand on Geralt’s head for balance (at which the witcher swore at him, but Jaskier was certain he would have toppled off otherwise). He could just make out the ledge in the faint moonlight. He mentally grumbled at the moon for deciding to rise so late as he hefted himself onto the ledge, shoulders straining to pull him up.

“How will you get—”

Jaskier’s words were cut off as Geralt took a running leap and sprang, catching the edge of the ledge with his fingers. He groaned as he hauled himself up next to Jaskier, whose stomach sank as he realized what was still in the cellar.

“Um, Geralt,” he said, feeling it his duty to remind the witcher before they headed back to the village, “the trophy?”

Geralt swore and dropped back into the cellar. The garkain’s head landed with a wet thunk beside Jaskier, who bent to examine it as Geralt once again leapt and clawed his way onto the ledge.

The head was snatched out from under him. “Time to go,” Geralt said.

Jaskier stood and dusted off his trousers. “I was just trying to get a look at the thing. How am I supposed to perfectly capture the menace of the beast if you don’t let me see what it looks like?”

“Use your imagination,” Geralt growled, shoving Jaskier toward the hole in the wall that had once been a door.

“All right, all right.” He wasn’t terribly bothered. He and Geralt had reached the manor on foot, and Geralt hadn’t brought a bag for the trophy. With the moon fully risen, there was plenty of light in the open. Jaskier would have more than enough time to examine the thing on the way back to the village, even if Geralt kept a tight grip on it.

The people of the village, as it turned out, were mostly asleep by the time they returned. Well, it was long past midnight, and, frankly, a bed for the night sounded just fine to Jaskier. Geralt grumbled, but allowed Jaskier to buy a room for them in the inn (such as it was, if a cramped room with one bed off the back of the kitchen of a tavern could be called an inn).

Having thoroughly examined the gruesome beast’s head, Jaskier set it in a corner and covered it with a towel—no need to have it staring at them all night. Geralt unbuckled his armor and set it down with a groan, and winced as he sat to clean his sword.

“Something the matter?” Jaskier asked, wincing himself a bit at the bruise on his own hip.

Geralt rolled his shoulders. “No.” But the firelight caught his features, which were twisted into a grimace.

“Are you hurt?” Jaskier knelt quickly beside him. He couldn’t see any blood, and all of Geralt’s limbs looked to be sound. Jaskier ran his hands over Geralt’s shoulders and arms, feeling for lumps or wounds. “Did that monster take a piece out of you?”

Geralt was looking at Jaskier with a grin now, watching him hunt for injuries. His golden eyes danced. “You see any missing pieces?”

Jaskier sat back on his heels. “Well. No.” He shook his head. “But you definitely winced.”

“Just a bit sore,” Geralt replied. “Had to hoist your fat ass up onto that ledge, you know.”

Jaskier smiled broadly. “Oh. Oh, I know exactly what to do for that.” He stood and rubbed his hands together, then opened Geralt’s saddlebags, propped against the far wall. “And my ass is not fat, which you very well know.”

“What are you doing?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier’s fingers closed around the bottle he was looking for, and he turned, holding it up triumphantly. “Chamomile,” he announced. “Perfect for relaxation. I’m going to give you a massage.”

“A massage?” Geralt’s brows knit. “What is that?”

Jaskier’s mouth dropped open. “Have you never had a massage?” He walked quickly back to Geralt and knelt beside him again. “Oh, you’re in for such a treat. A massage is…well, it’s heaven in my fingertips. It’s a warm bath on a cold day. It’s a golden sunrise after a dark night. It’s—”

“Fine, fine.” Geralt held up a hand. “I get the picture. What do you want me to do?”

Jaskier stood. “Take off your clothes and get in the bed.”

Geralt cocked an eyebrow. “Jaskier, if you wanted to bed me, you could have just asked.”

“Oh, I’ll bed you, but not until after. No, this is how a massage works. Take off your clothes and lie face down on the bed.” He grinned. “Unless you’d like me to take them off for you.”

“I can manage.” Geralt stood, dragged his shirt off, and dropped his trousers. Jaskier’s breath caught—no matter how many times he saw Geralt naked, it never ceased to make his heart skip a beat. His cock twitched at the sight, but he bit his lip. He had work to do first.

Geralt lay on the bed, and Jaskier took off his own doublet—it was a bit too tight for the task at hand—and climbed on top of him, straddling his hips.

“Is this some ploy for you to be on top this time?” Geralt asked over his shoulder, and Jaskier couldn’t help but grind his hips against Geralt’s ass. He leaned close and whispered in Geralt’s ear, “Just relax. We’ll get to who’s going to be on top later.”

Geralt half-grinned as Jaskier poured a bit of the chamomile oil into his palm. He set the bottle aside, rubbed his palms together, and then spread the oil over Geralt’s back. As he dug the heels of his hands into the witcher’s knotted muscles, Geralt let out a low groan. Jaskier smoothed his hands up and down Geralt’s back, dragging knots out of the muscles as he worked. Geralt moaned and sighed. “Wow,” he breathed.

Jaskier grinned. “You really needed this.” He smoothed knots from Geralt’s shoulder, his fingers working into the muscle there. Geralt’s scars were alternatingly tight or raised under Jaskier’s fingers. Jaskier was careful not to press too hard on them.

“Do your scars hurt?” he asked.

“No,” Geralt replied.

Jaskier pressed harder then, less concerned about harming Geralt. He worked carefully, bit by bit, easing the tension in Geralt’s neck and shoulders, smoothing the knots in his back. The view was spectacular as well: Geralt’s broad, well-muscled back, its scars a living story in themselves. Jaskier wished he could have been there for every scar, to chronicle the amazing feats of this beautiful, fearless man. He delicately traced his fingers over them, outlining each one, before smoothing the muscle beneath with his palms. Occasionally his touch raised gooseflesh in its wake. Jaskier smiled, captivated by the effects he could have on Geralt.

He dabbed a bit more oil onto his hands and repositioned himself, sitting now across Geralt’s knees. Jaskier pressed his slick palms hard against Geralt’s ass, eliciting a moan from him. Jaskier grinned, working the knots out of this scrumptious muscle.

“Where did you learn this?” Geralt asked, his voice muffled by the pillow.

Jaskier shrugged. “Oh, here and there. One picks things up on the road, you know.”

“Hm.”

Splaying his hands over Geralt’s cheeks, Jaskier mused on all the different ways he had touched Geralt, and been touched in return. Certainly at first Jaskier’s touch had been needy, and Geralt’s painful—Jaskier wouldn’t soon forget Geralt’s fist in his gut the day they had met. But in time he had softened Geralt’s touch, and perhaps softened the man himself. Certainly, Geralt was still sometimes rough with him, often hauling him by his collar, usually out of the way of some menacing creature. But he was gentle at least as often, smoothing his hair before Jaskier went onstage, checking him over to be sure he was all right after Geralt had killed a monster, smothering his mouth with a kiss in the small hours they spent wrapped around each other. Jaskier liked to think that, while the world had taught the witcher to be vicious, he had taught him to be gentle.

Geralt, it seemed, appreciated Jaskier’s gentle touch, as evidenced by the repeated sighs of contentment he was making as Jaskier kneaded his knuckles into Geralt’s backside. Jaskier smiled. So much of Geralt’s life was hard—sleeping on hard ground, the hard cut of steel into flesh, the hard stones occasionally thrown by ungrateful townsfolk. Jaskier enjoyed bringing softnesses into the spaces Geralt allowed him.

Jaskier climbed off Geralt to massage his legs and feet. His hands smoothed Geralt’s flesh, and again the witcher moaned, and even whimpered a bit as Jaskier’s knuckles pressed against the soles of his feet. Jaskier smiled, briefly pressing his lips against the skin of Geralt’s foot, grinning at the smile this brought to Geralt’s face. Finally, all of Geralt’s muscles felt smooth and relaxed beneath Jaskier’s touch. Quietly, Jaskier shed his shirt and trousers and climbed back onto Geralt. He dabbed more oil onto his hands and then rubbed them against Geralt’s ass, kneading the muscles. Then he slid a thumb between Geralt’s cheeks and pressed it against his hole.

Geralt’s head turned and one golden eye locked onto Jaskier, taking in the fact that the bard was now naked. He grinned. “Is this part of the massage too?”

Jaskier pushed his thumb in and Geralt gasped. “This is called a happy ending.” He slid his thumb out and back in again, and Geralt moaned. “It usually costs more.”

Geralt moaned and pushed his hips back, pressing against Jaskier’s hand. Jaskier’s cock, which had begun to stiffen already, sprang to full hardness. Jaskier slid his other thumb in as well, widening Geralt’s entrance.

“So,” Geralt said, his voice breathy and deep, “is this the part where we talk about you being on top this time?”

Jaskier grinned. “Yes, I suppose it is.” He pushed both thumbs as deep as they would go, and Geralt groaned and pressed back against his palms. “Does that suit you?”

Geralt nodded, and Jaskier replaced two thumbs with three fingers of one hand, while he used the other to drip oil onto his cock. He pulled his fingers out of Geralt and placed his cock against him. Geralt growled and pushed back, driving Jaskier’s cock in deep. Jaskier moaned and pulled back, feeling the tightness slide down his cock, then pushed back in.

Fuck, Geralt was tight. Jaskier would have worried he hadn’t warmed him up enough were it not for the fact that Geralt was moaning and pushing against him with a steady rhythm. Jaskier tried to match it, but the pinch of his ass was so intense Jaskier’s balls were throbbing.

“Geralt, wait,” he gasped, placing a hand on his back to slow him. “Hang on.”

“What?” Geralt said, glancing over his shoulder. “Am I doing it wrong?”

“Oh, fuck, no.” Jaskier swallowed hard, willing his stuttering heart to calm down. _Am I doing it wrong?_ If Geralt had any idea the effect he had on Jaskier… “No, I just need a minute. Fuck, you’re so tight.”

“That’s what you get for deflowering me.” Geralt wriggled his hips against Jaskier’s torso. Jaskier took several deep, steadying breaths. He couldn’t be certain whether Geralt was merely being playful or whether his teasing was intended to provoke, but dammit, even for Jaskier, this was heady. From the moment Jaskier had first laid eyes on Geralt he had been consumed by the witcher, had ached to be near him, had yearned to hear his voice. For as long as he could manage it he had hidden these feelings, kept them buried as deeply as possible, fearing that letting Geralt see them would mean losing him. Jaskier had been certain that, as little as Geralt wanted a friend tagging along recording his victories, he wanted a lover doing so even less.

And yet, when the mask had finally dropped, when Jaskier had risked losing Geralt anyway if he didn’t let his guard down, not only did Geralt not cast Jaskier aside, he had, in fact, pulled him in closer. Their first night together had passed as if in a dream, and indeed, if Jaskier had not woken up curled naked in Geralt’s arms, he wouldn’t have believed it had truly happened. But Geralt had lain with him again the next night, and then again several nights later, and they had soon fallen into a sort of regular pattern of hunting monsters by day and fucking each other senseless by night.

And Geralt, so knowledgable about monsters and death and violence, had been woefully ignorant in matters of care and tenderness. Jaskier had been teaching him, slowly, of such things—of the simple comfort of having one’s hair brushed at the end of a long day, or the sweet tenderness of a brief kiss as sleep overtakes one, or, now, the relaxation of a long massage.

So now, to be reminded again that Jaskier was the first Geralt had known of such care, was the first Geralt had allowed to put him in such a tremendously vulnerable position, raised a lump in Jaskier’s throat.

But now was not the time for going to pieces over the most amazing man Jaskier had ever met. Now was the time for showing that man how unbelievably delectable it could be to take a man’s cock as fully as he could give it. With that in mind, Jaskier returned Geralt’s grin and thrust into him, building a small but steady rhythm, biting his lip to keep the pressure of Geralt’s ass from pushing him over the brink. He grasped Geralt’s hips and titled them, and his next thrust pushed the head of his cock to meet a hard knot inside the witcher, who gasped and swore.

“Ah, yes, Geralt, that’s one of the joys of being deflowered.” Jaskier pushed again, and Geralt moaned. “If I keep doing that,” Jaskier pushed again, “you just might come everywhere without me so much as laying a finger on your cock.”

Geralt’s fingers had curled around the edges of the mattress, the knuckles white. Jaskier grinned and leaned forward, running his hands down Geralt’s arms and entwining his fingers with Geralt’s. His lips brushed Geralt’s ear. “Do you want me to show you?”

“Yes,” Geralt growled, so Jaskier leaned back and pounded hard against him, bumping against that spot deep inside him each time, until with a muffled scream Geralt came, his hips bucking frantically as his fingers gripped the sheets.

At this, Jaskier allowed himself to come as well, having barely been able to contain it long enough to finish Geralt. He pulled Geralt hard against him, emptying himself into him, dizzy with the thought of it. He had fucked Geralt, not been fucked by him but fucked him, had actually made him come by fucking him. Part of his brain was desperate to boast of it (write a verse about it into every song he ever sang, in fact) while another part wanted no one else ever to know, for it to be a secret shared between them and only them, forever.

He let go of Geralt’s hips and pulled out, collapsing onto the bed beside him. Geralt rose, his torso shining with cum, and retrieved a towel, cleaning himself off before handing it to Jaskier. Jaskier cleaned himself off as Geralt lay back down, on his back, his hands behind his head, eyes closed. His face was a picture of contentment.

And now Jaskier’s doubts began to creep in again, as they often did in this moment—the one in which Geralt seemed entirely satisfied with their physical act, and in which Jaskier yearned for more. He wanted so desperately for Geralt to reach for him, to pull him in close, to nuzzle his hair or kiss his lips. And, once in a while, Geralt did, although often only after Jaskier nestled against him, wrapping his arms around him. But mostly Geralt was happy just to lie back and fall asleep (provided he didn’t want another go; the witcher had a stamina Jaskier had never seen matched).

So Jaskier did what he had to do, and lay against Geralt, his head pillowed on Geralt’s shoulder, one arm on his torso, his fingers tracing the scars on Geralt’s chest. Geralt wrapped his arm comfortably over Jaskier’s back, and Jaskier closed his eyes, breathing in chamomile and sweat and cum, telling his heart to slow down, and trying not to want more than Geralt would—or could—give.

For Jaskier knew that the mutations that made witchers dulled their emotions. He didn’t believe they were stripped of emotion entirely—no one who traveled more than a few days with Geralt would believe that—but certainly things that would rouse anger or melancholy or joy in other people would elicit no more than a muted grunt from Geralt. And Jaskier, whose heart had broken and healed and then broken again before he’d been big enough to stretch his fingers across the frets of a lute, had emotions at least twice as big and four times as often as normal people.

Thus he knew caution was needed. He knew that, no matter how much he loved Geralt—and he was certain now that it was love, not merely fascination or infatuation or lust—Geralt could never feel the same in kind. Most humans couldn’t, much less a witcher.

So for now, Jaskier contented himself with feeling the warmth of Geralt’s skin, listening to the slow thump of his heartbeat, hearing the steady rustle of his breath as he slept. For now, it was enough.

It had to be.

**Author's Note:**

> I meant for this to be lighthearted and fun, but apparently I can only write a pining Jaskier lately, sorry. Anyway, I couldn't not write a chamomile story. I just couldn't.
> 
> If you like my work, find me on tumblr: [thetardigrape](https://thetardigrape.tumblr.com/)


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